Free EntangledTrio by Cat Grant Page A

disappearing around a bend in the corridor.
    “Don’t worry, it’s not you,” Colette said, coming up on David’s right side. “He’s running off to another rehearsal with the Orchestre de Paris . He didn’t expect to be double-booked this week, but the fates had other plans.”
    “Well, rehearsal or no rehearsal, I’ll get up onstage and give it my all, I promise.”
    “Of course you will.” Slipping her hand into the crook of his arm, she drew him down the hallway. “Let me tell you a secret. If Aleks likes the way you sing, he says nothing. If he doesn’t, he looks like he’s ready to vomit.”
    “Then I guess I should be glad he likes me.” They both laughed. It was a relaxed, comfortable sound. David let out a sigh. Maybe the next three weeks wouldn’t be so awful, as long as he didn’t have to walk on eggshells every time Aleks was in the room. “So have you told him about—”
    “Yes, he knows,” she replied softly. “Aleks and I have no secrets from each other.”
    “And he’s still okay with us working together?”
    “It was either engage a singer we knew would do a good job, or take our chances with whoever Popov could get on short notice. Aleks is a musician and an artist first. He knew there was no other option.”
    “Wow. That’s what I call open-minded.”
    “To be honest, I didn’t actually tell him who our new Don José was until after I called you. But he still agreed you were the best possible choice.”
    “I hope you both think so after Friday night.”
    She smiled. “I have no doubts.”
     
    * * * * *
     
     
    The dress rehearsal went off fairly well, with only a few minor technical glitches. David’s costume still needed altering—Bernini had about fifteen pounds on him, which meant David spent the evening traipsing around the stage in a Spanish army corporal’s uniform that fit him like an old potato sack—but at least he hadn’t walked into the scenery or missed any of the prompter’s cues. When the final curtain came down, he heaved a relieved sigh and trudged back to his dressing room to collapse.
    He’d gotten his second wind by the time his dresser came by to help him out of his costume, then he padded in to take a shower. No sooner had he emerged from the bathroom, still knotting his robe around him, when a soft rap came at the door and Petrovsky poked his head in.
    “You did remarkably well tonight, under the circumstances,” the maestro said. “Thank you.”
    A bit qualified for a rave, but he’d still take it. “Thank you , maestro. I just hope I get my legs under me by tomorrow night. Everyone else has been rehearsing this staging for weeks, but I feel like I’m dodging traffic out there.”
    “Coming in on a production at the last minute is always stressful. But Colette said you were picking it up quicker than anyone had a right to expect.”
    “Well, it’s not my first time,” he admitted, sinking down on the edge of a small couch directly across from the baby grand piano that swallowed up most of the room. “I made my Met debut on a day’s notice after Alagna canceled a performance of Manon . Just a few years out of Juilliard and there I was, onstage singing a love duet with Renée Fleming.”
    “I imagine that made you a bit nervous.”
    “Absolutely fucking terrified.”
    They both burst out laughing. Finally Petrovsky stepped inside, shutting the door behind him to drown out the post-show hustle and bustle in the hallway. “I remember my first year conducting. I had to run back to my dressing room every intermission to change shirts. They were always soaked through with perspiration.”
    “I know the feeling. I just rinsed off about five pounds of flop-sweat.” Oh God . He could’ve bitten his tongue the second he said it. Talk about an indelicate turn of phrase.
    But Petrovsky just shrugged and sat down on the piano bench. “Audiences have no conception of what goes into a great performance. They want the excitement, the high